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<title>The Flowers are Singing our Eulogy by thefrenchmistake</title>
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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/23582404">The Flowers are Singing our Eulogy</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/thefrenchmistake/pseuds/thefrenchmistake'>thefrenchmistake</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Chronicles of Narnia - All Media Types</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Angst, F/M, Gen, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, Post-Prince Caspian, Protective Siblings, References to Depression, Siblings, anger issues</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-04-10</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-04-10</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-18 07:55:13</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Mature</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>2,899</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/23582404</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/thefrenchmistake/pseuds/thefrenchmistake</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>They don’t notice, but she does -fuck, she does- and for maybe the first time in her life, she has no idea what to do.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Edmund Pevensie &amp; Lucy Pevensie &amp; Peter Pevensie &amp; Susan Pevensie, Peter Pevensie &amp; Susan Pevensie, Peter Pevensie/Susan Pevensie if you squint</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>5</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>54</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>The Flowers are Singing our Eulogy</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p> </p><p>“<em>In that day there will be no light; the luminaries will dwindle</em>.” Zechariah 14:6</p><p> </p><p>They don’t notice, but she does -fuck, she does- and for maybe the first time in her life, she has no idea what to do. She’s always known how to act, even if it was the wrong choice, but at least she had her mind set.</p><p>Now… He gets into fights on purpose, and loses some of them on purpose. Maybe he finds something he’s lost in the pain, in the bruises, in the fractured ribs and bloody knuckles.</p><p>What can she do ?</p><p>What can she say, when her slashed wrists and forearms are a pain she can’t forget ? She is a woman -no, not anymore-, so she cannot choose the thrill of battle and taste blood in her mouth, she cannot punch people and push them to hurt her.</p><p>So she does the next best thing.</p><p>She takes one of their father’s razors and tries, one night; finds the ache in herself eased by the painful press of the blade on her skin. It’s red and it hurts, badly, and she’s glad.</p><p>So now that she knows he does it on purpose, what can she do ?</p><p>She’s not a hypocrite, so she cannot tell him to stop - he wouldn’t listen to her anyway- yet she cannot stand by and watch him destroy himself by the use of others’ hatred.</p><p> </p><p>It is this one time, this split second, that changes them once more, a simple tilt of their world, imperceptible to everyone else.</p><p>He’s shouting at two broad guys when she turns the corner of the street, just there, on the other side of the road. She sees them shouting, shoving each other, and Peter keeps insulting them. She knows it’s on purpose; she knows he’s just craving to hurt and be hurt and it pulls at something buried deep in her core.</p><p>And she cannot just walk by; she just can’t.</p><p>She crosses to the sidewalk where they stand with a purposeful walk, eyes straight ahead, fixed on him.</p><p>As she’s coming closer, she makes out the other guy’s fist, the set of his shoulders and the movement of his arm. She knows Peter has seen it as well -he almost sags with relief yet tenses with anticipation of the hit, and she can make out his grin even from where she is- and hell no, she is not about to let him get punched in his stupid face. She does not even think (a first) and sprints forward, dropping her things on the sidewalk. And then what seems to be a damn concrete wall lands right on her cheek, throwing her to the ground in a confusion of screams and blurry images.</p><p>That hurt, she thinks as she blinks stupidly, ears ringing. She feels his big, warm hands on her shoulders and back and then she can see Peter crouching before her, tugging her into a sitting position. He seems frantic, eyes roaming on her face and his hands come up to cradle her face.</p><p>“God, Susan, are you alright ?”</p><p>She tastes blood.</p><p>“I’m fine,” she smiles.</p><p>“What were you thinking for Christ’s sake !” He almost shouts, eyebrows crunched, but he sounds so pained she decides to let his tantrum slide.</p><p>“I wasn’t going to let you get punched in the face,” she grits out.</p><p>Her vision is clearer now, as is the world moving around her. Everything comes back to its normal pace, yet all she can focus on is Peter and the way his hands tighten their grip on her, and the way his eyes drop the ground in shame before looking back up. She still feels a little dizzy -she is not used to getting punched, sue her- and so she wraps her fingers around his arm to anchor herself, asks:</p><p>“Take me home ?”</p><p>And he rushes, of course, be careful, go slow, here, lean on me. He ends up carrying her satchel while she leans on him because he won’t let her walk alone (“God Su, haven’t you ever heard of concussions ?”) although she feels better now (there is still blood in her mouth).</p><p>His hand is sure on her waist as he supports her and she keeps rolling her eyes but she won’t lie: it’s good, in a way. Her cheek hurts like hell, but otherwise she has a feeling she will be glad of this day.</p><p>So she lets it slide again -she’s feeling tolerant today.</p><p>“So. Why did you provoke him ?” She says, interrupting his ranting-ah, not so tolerant then.</p><p>She can feel him tense against her.</p><p>“They were assholes.”</p><p>“Maybe. You bumped into them, is that it ?”</p><p>He says nothing.</p><p>“For Christ’s sake Peter,” she snaps and his surprised eyes drop on the side of her face. “You’re a grown man.”</p><p>“I’m trying…”</p><p>“I know what you’re trying to do, but it won’t work. Not like this. Do you really believe you would’ve behaved that way back there ?”</p><p>He stays mute. They keep walking, ignoring the curious, sometimes indignant looks thrown their way.</p><p>She can actually feel the bruise stretching on her skin.</p><p>“You need to stop,” she breathes.</p><p>“You shouldn’t have come between us. You shouldn’t have gotten hurt, it’s… Susan, I knew what I was doing.”</p><p>“Did you though ?”</p><p>He averts his eyes as only answer. Now that the waiting is over and there is no hope to have about fleeing this town, this society, this world, neither of them know what they’re doing. They just try to find a way to make it a little easier.</p><p>For her, it’s razors and nails breaking her skin and blood bubbling to the surface; for him, it’s getting pain he thinks helps and throwing punches when pain isn’t enough, to feel like a man who hasn’t lost everything he was (but they both have). So they cannot really find it in themselves to blame the other. They’re just in pain.</p><p>“Stop talking to me like a child,” he finally answers, and that’s not what he wanted to say; it surprises her that he refrains himself, contains the words she knows are burning his brains and his tongue.</p><p>“Then stop acting like a lost boy !” She hisses, frustration clawing at her voice.</p><p>He clenches his jaw, and she knows he wants to talk back and let his temperament take over, his hands tightening on her body, but she just took a punch for him and as mad as he is about that, he is extremely worried.</p><p>She supposes they’re both tolerant, today.</p><p>So she makes her voice softer, lower, and whispers in the cold evening of London:</p><p>“I’m just worried about you.”</p><p>The world seems to slow down its pace, the atmosphere shifting to something softer, and warmth creeps up her body for the first time in a long while when he presses a kiss to her temple, murmurs:</p><p>“I’m sorry.”</p><p>And she knows he’s talking about the fight and his behavior but especially her getting in the way and getting hurt because of him.</p><p>“Don’t be sorry. Just be better.”</p><p>His nose stays buried in her hair throughout the walk home which must make it really hard for him to walk normally, but his steps donut falter, so she enjoys the quiet moment while it lasts. And during this walk back, she wonders what other people see; it’s dark enough now that acquaintances cannot recognize either of them, and she wonders what they look like, huddled together.</p><p>She knows what they look like. Chuckles because people are, in fact, blind.</p><p>They do not talk again until the house arises before them, quiet, bland. There, Susan asks Peter to check for their mom before she steps in.</p><p>He disappears for less than a minute, and she closes her eyes and lets herself feel the cold air meet her bruised cheek, needles of pain spreading in her face. He reappears and leads her inside (she still does not need his help, but lets him all the same). She argues with him when he tells her to go to his room and not hers, but he throws her a gaze of mi-annoyance mi-worry with a please, and she scrunches up her nose and stumps upstairs (but not too loud because their siblings must be asleep and she does not want to wake them).</p><p>His room is perfectly tidy and clean, oddly enough.</p><p>She sits on the bed, looks at every object (everything is in its place, which makes her sad) and gets reacquainted with the room; it’s been a while since she has been in here. Her room is quite the opposite, books studding her desk and bed, various objects (jewels, brushes, a vinyle player…) shattered around the room. Expectations would tell him to be messy and manly; her to be tidy and perfectly contained; but again, they were never ones to bend to expectations.</p><p>She pulls on her sleeve to make sure not only that the marks are hidden from him, but from her gaze as well, so she cannot look at them and wallow in her despair, remember why they are so lost in this world that seems hell bent on crushing them down.</p><p>Despite what started it, this is a nice moment. A calm, silent one, which finally allows her to pause and breathe, when all the time her lungs seem unable to expand enough, to let the air through, when all the time she feels as though she’s been running a marathon and still cannot reach the end.</p><p>Now, she breathes. Now, she listens to the silence.</p><p>She vaguely thinks of Ed and Lucy, who must be in their rooms, so it feels like it is just Peter and her. And she does not know why, but it feels good. She realizes the moment he steps into the room and she smiles that she misses him.</p><p>He walks straight to her, crouches before her with an elbow on her knee and his hand brings something cold and hard against her cheek.</p><p>She hisses. A guilty look passes on his face.</p><p>His eyes stay fixed on the bruise spreading, which is how she knows he’s going to talk and try make it all his fault.</p><p>“I’m sorry,” he says indeed.</p><p>“Peter. It’s ok.”</p><p>He sighs.</p><p>“I hate seeing this on you. It’s so wrong, I hate this, it’s…”</p><p>“Then do you realize how I feel every time you stroll in wearing bruises and split lips like a prize ?” She asks gently.</p><p>She is done being annoyed and angry, they lost too much to keep their anger focused on each other.</p><p>He is silent for so long she thinks he will just stop talking for the rest of the night, but he eventually opens his mouth again.</p><p>“I don’t… It’s the only thing that helps, I don’t really know why, but it does. And I know… I know. It’s fucked up, trust me. But it’s the one thing that somehow feels right in this Godforsaken world. I’m so…” he sighs again, presses his forehead to her thigh for a second. “I’m so fucked up, Su. I can’t see it getting any better, and I don’t know how you can.”</p><p>“I can’t.”</p><p>His eyes snap up to her and she argues with herself for a minute before letting out a heavy breath.</p><p>“Promise me you won’t tell anyone.”</p><p>“Su…”</p><p>“Promise or I leave right now.”</p><p>It’s a lie and he knows it, but complies all the same.</p><p>“I promise it will stay between us, no matter what it is.”</p><p>She pulls away from him just enough to take her sleeve and pull it up. She hears his gasp even before her eyes fall on him and he carefully warps his fingers around her wrist to see them closer.</p><p>“What… Why… Susan, why would you…”</p><p>“Same reason you start fights on purpose.”</p><p>“That’s…”</p><p>“Fucked up.”</p><p>Aslan, they’re so broken.</p><p> </p><p>“Do you miss it ?”</p><p>She is silent for a moment, but it is enough for him to take her hand in his, pull her a little closer.</p><p>Peter has always been like this, giving his everything to ease the pain of others, no matter the consequences for himself. She leans her head on his shoulder. They’re broken, lost, ripped apart at the seams, but they hope, still, to find some sense of comfort in each other, and maybe it is a simple beginning (she doesn’t know yet she will gladly forget everything to make it just a bit less painful), but it’s a start nonetheless.</p><p>Maybe it will be better.</p><p>“Yeah,” she eventually answers. “Like a limb.”</p><p>She feels the movement of his nodding.</p><p>“I love you, you know that, right ?”</p><p>She smiles, because he whispers it in her ear like it’s a secret, like his confession is meant for her only and the world doesn’t get to hear it, the soft tone and silky words. She feels privileged, for the first time since they were banned from a kingdom that was already not theirs anymore.</p><p>“I know,” she says.</p><p>And it is enough. He doesn’t push her to say the words back or to say anything else, really. He knows there is more in her short confession than anything she could say, and more than anyone hears.</p><p>She would kill to make it better, he knows, but this time there are no demons to slay, no injustice to set right, no hope to hold on to. There is just the promise of a future that seems dull and dark, compared to a past of vibrant colors and brillant waterfalls.</p><p> </p><p>When he finally gets on his feet, it is to put on a vinyl record before turning towards her with lips curled upwards.</p><p>He tugs her up and she bites her lip to contain her smile (it doesn’t exactly work). The music fills the room, a velvety harmony that just pulls at the strings in her core like a harp. The notes bring them into a world where nothing else can touch them; both England and Narnia had brought their share of endless pain, but this, this feeling she gets when Peter smiles at her in a way she hasn’t seen in years, no one can take from her.And he pulls her close, laughs when he makes her twirl, and she has to laugh too, because this is theirs and for once it feels good. It is theirs, and no one can take this from them.</p><p>After ten minutes or so of dancing and laughing where she completely forgets the world outside this little, joy filled room, Edmund appears in the doorway with an eyebrow raised. He rolls his eyes when Peter dips Susan down and waves at him, but smiles brightly and Lucy squeals in delight before lunging at Peter so he would make her twirl as well. Susan is the one to take Edmund by his hand and drag him inside the little circle, and for a while, it feels like everything will be ok (it won’t).</p><p> </p><p>They have too many memories for their brains and bodies to contain; they pour out of their every pore and every word, and the future appears crueler than the past, and both mingle and intertwine until they cannot pull a string without undoing the entire tapestry of their lives.</p><p>Sometimes she wants to pull it. Sometimes he wants to burn it down until it’s a forgotten pile of ashes and they can breath something other than loss.</p><p>Now, there always seems to be too much to say, yet no word is uttered out loud. He supposes that’s the bane of this world. Don’t speak your mind or you’ll get betrayed, don’t show your feelings or you’ll get stumped on, don’t be vulnerable, don’t be human, don’t care, don’t feel or you’ll die, for this world is not one for patience and joy, nor for the pained souls casted in it longing for sense; it is a world rotten to the core and shaped by hatred and masquerades.</p><p>Susan has always been better at acting than he was -and God, the aftermath would be deadly and terrible.</p><p>But he knows it is tearing at her, to play dumb for boys who don’t see more than a pretty face, to play perfect for women who urge her in dressing rooms and hair shops, to act careless when she still feels the weight of a kingdom on her shoulders, to smile like a porcelain doll when she wants to scream, to pray when all has been taken away from her.</p><p>Her perfect eyebrows frown above her perfect blue eyes and she presses her perfect lips tight to force a smile; always perfect, so perfect, it make shim crazy with anger and lust and despair. He’s so scared, Aslan, to see her slipping away; he’s so scared to lose her he doesn’t even realize he already has.</p><p>But it will get better, he thinks, admiring the new fallen snow on the pine branches and shivering trees. It has to get better, he says to himself as he watches Susan’s shattered smile directed at the sky and at the stars they can no longer see. It will get better, Susan whispers when she finds him sobbing among remains of broken glass, blood, and whisky.</p><p>And that is the biggest lie they tell themselves.</p>
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